


(Shelter from the) Ice Storm

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other, aziraphale has trouble speaking what he wants, crowley jumps to conclusions in the interest of pleasing his angel, some unspoken confessions, these two are a disaster in the best way, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout, they're still going so slow but aziraphale is finally catching up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 16 for the advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale is finally catching up to Crowley, but admitting things is hard after centuries of silence.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 15
Kudos: 183





	(Shelter from the) Ice Storm

The lights of the bookshop flicker, and an angel and a demon look up in unison. They study the ceiling as the lights dim, then flicker, then slowly stabilize at their usual comforting warm glow.

On the journey back from the ceiling, the angel’s eyes are waylaid by the clock. So are his thoughts, and his words.

“Oh, look at the time, it’s gone four,” Aziraphale exclaims. Crowley’s response is a noncommittal hum. “I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

This is somewhat of a lie; he’s been surreptitiously miracling logs onto the fire and wine into the bottles for some time now, though without an eye for the specific hour. He’s been taking shortcuts, not because there aren’t more logs or more bottles of wine - there are plenty of both - but because if he were to handle those things the human way, he’d need to stand.

Standing is the last thing he wants to do right now. Not because he’s drunk - well, maybe a little. Some of it is wine and some of it is comfort and some of it is, well…

He doesn’t want to stand because if he does, he won’t be next to Crowley anymore.

He’d been brave, earlier. Had settled himself on the sofa instead of his customary armchair, in the precise spot Crowley always leaves open for him. It’s sat empty every night since the sofa first found a home in his bookshop, because Aziraphale has always been too scared to take it. Too cautious, too nervous. Too anxious.

Too slow.

The point is, he’s here now. And standing is the absolute _last_ thing he wants.

Crowley is stirring where he lounges in the opposite corner, where he’s held himself these past nine hours, save the occasional lean forward to top off their glasses. Where he had coiled, tense, anticipatory, when Aziraphale first circumvented the chair to take the offered space. Where he had spent the first three hours nearly frozen in place, vibrating like a plucked string, though neither of them dared mention it, nor even acknowledge it. Where he had finally unwound somewhat somewhere around their seventh bottle, uncoiled just enough to seem relaxed.

It’s astonishing, really. Crowley hasn’t altered his position in the slightest; his right knee, pulled sideways on the seat, is the same three inches from Aziraphale’s thigh as it had been when the angel first sat. And yet, with absolutely no position change, the tension that had been screaming along every line of his body is nearly gone.

It’s coming back, though, and in abundance. Aziraphale frowns.

“- to get to,” Crowley finishes, and Aziraphale hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s said.

“Pardon?”

“Weren’t you just saying you needed to read that new acquisition? The - whatsit -”

“Oh, yes, quite,” the angel agrees. “I’ve been meaning to -”

“So I’ll leave you to it,” Crowley replies, and no, _this_ is the absolute last thing Aziraphale wants. The building tension means Crowley is _leaving_ , and that’s worse.

“Leave?”

Crowley freezes mid-motion, half leaned forward to lever himself off the sofa. “Yes,” he answers slowly, reaching for his glasses with equal caution. “So you can read without distraction.”

Oh, bless him and curse him in equal measure; Crowley is leaving Aziraphale because he thinks that’s what the angel _wants_. And he wouldn’t have been so far off, once - well, at least he wouldn’t have been far off from what Aziraphale had been telling himself he wanted, although he’d known even then in his heart of hearts he hadn’t wanted it. Aziraphale has made a comment about the lateness of the hour, and Crowley - kind, considerate, thoughtful demon that he is - has assumed that means he’s overstayed his welcome.

Whatever expression Aziraphale’s face is wearing fails to answer the question on Crowley’s; the demon’s questing fingers close around the arm of his glasses, discarded on the end table. They land with unerring accuracy despite the way the pair have locked eyes.

 _Don’t leave me please don’t go -_ “You’re not a distraction.”

One dark eyebrow lifts in disbelief.

“You shouldn’t go,” Aziraphale tries again, but the words warp on their way past his lips, twist into something vaguer, something empty and echoing. The lights flicker and the windows rattle, and he remembers the weather forecast, seizes the excuse with both hands. “There’s supposed to be an ice storm.”

“Should make for an excellent customer deterrent tomorrow,” Crowley offers. “Well. Today.”

 _Don’t leave. Don’t leave me. I can’t bear the silence any longer, the waiting. Don’t go._ “It won’t be safe to travel in,” he manages.

Crowley smiles, a faint echo of his usual self-assured grin, as if he can hear the shadow of the words Aziraphale cannot seem to say but dares not answer them. “I’ve driven through worse. At least the ice means the roads shouldn't catch fire.”

 _Don’t leave me, don’t go, please stay. Stay here with me, right here. Go slowly, please, slow down and stay here so I can finally catch up to you. I think I’m ready. It’s so hard._ “Best not to risk it.”

“I promise I’ll be fine, angel.”

_But I won’t, if you leave. Not now. Why can’t I say it? Don’t go yet, please stay. Stay here with me._

Crowley brings the glasses close, lifts them towards his face -

 _Don’t leave me, no, don’t go, don’t go, please -_ “Don’t,” Aziraphale chokes out.

There is a quiet snap as Crowley’s fingers flex on the arm of the glasses.

Silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, full of meaning and words that refuse to be spoken. Aziraphale’s lungs are full of static.

“Don’t what?” Crowley asks finally, uncovered eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. The glasses dangle awkwardly from his hand. “Don’t what, angel?”

_Don’t leave me, don’t go. I can’t bear a moment without you anymore, please, oh please stay, on this sofa, in this shop, in my life, forever. Please. Never leave me, I’m sorry, I need you, please, I -_

The words pile up in his chest, squeeze the air from his lungs until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t speak.

Crowley sighs. “I should -”

“Stay,” Aziraphale breathes. One word when a hundred, a thousand clamor, bigger and louder and stronger. But maybe one word…

Crowley swallows, stares. 

Aziraphale lays his hand on Crowley’s knee and watches the demon’s eyes slowly bleed gold to the edges.

“Stay,” he repeats, louder now, braver. Crowley is nodding, settling back into his sofa corner; Aziraphale’s fingers flex on his knee, and the tension bleeds from his shoulders, his face, his hands. Crowley’s glasses slip from his loose fingers to bounce and clatter on the floor below.

“Stay,” Aziraphale asks.

“Always,” Crowley answers.


End file.
